by Britney King
Before I change my mind, I text back. Yes, please do.
I watch as the three little bubbles dance across my screen, eagerly awaiting his reply. And then, finally, K. I’ll let you know when he can meet. I’m sorry about today. Hope you’re not mad. It was a joke. Oh, and if you could pay me back for my efforts by finding me a house, that’d be great. xo
I sit astride him and kiss him on the mouth. My hair is still wet. He leans forward, inhaling the scent of my shampoo. He wraps a strand of hair around his finger, pulls tightly and then lets go.
I raise my brows suggestively, and he fumbles with the buttons on my worn night shirt. Greg has undone these buttons countless times, an infinite number of times over the years. He doesn’t have to fumble. He acts surprised when he sees that I am not wearing a bra, although I hardly doubt he is. I press against him as he inhales and then devours the rest of me.
Afterward, we lie in the dark. Once again, I tell him about my plan to find new friends. I tell him I need to find a new broker. And then I say, “Maybe it’s time to move. Think about it—we could just pack up and go. Mooney wouldn’t know where to find us. Just like that—all our problems solved.”
“We’re not running away,” he tells me.
I let out a dramatic sigh.
“You’re a thousand times better than any of those women,” he whispers in the dark. “And that’s the problem. They know it.”
“That’s sweet.”
“No,” he retorts. “It’s the truth.” He rolls onto one side, reaching out and touching my face. “Why do you think they’re always obsessed with all that self-help nonsense?”
I shrug.
“Because they’re deeply unhappy with who they are.”
“Why does it feel like Jack Mooney appeared in our lives and then everything started falling apart?”
“Maybe it’s not,” he answers. “Maybe it’s coming together.” He sits up and faces me completely. “Speaking of… I’m going to call Eric about that job.”
“That was six months ago. At least.”
“Yeah, and if I know Eric, and I do—it’ll still be open. He doesn’t move on anything quick.”
My mouth twists. “But this is your dream.”
He shrugs. “And as with all dreams, at some point you wake up. We tried,” he says. “We really, really did. We just couldn’t get it off the ground.”
I want to tell him no. I want to say he’s wrong. I want to tell him to keep trying, to keep fighting. But the reasonable part of me can’t bring myself to say the words.
Chapter Twenty
I drop the girls at school and then slide into the drive-thru line at Joe’s Coffee Haus. Flipping the visor down, I check my appearance in the tiny mirror, noting the dark circles under my eyes and pallor of my complexion. It’s been a rough morning, and it shows. This is the kind of exhaustion I’m not even sure a double espresso will fix, but I need something. The Thanksgiving holiday knocked us all out of our routines, making it difficult to fall back into them.
It’s Monday, which means the line circles around the building. It also means that if I hit traffic, which is likely, I’m going to be late. I should have known better. This is not going to work. I pull out of the line. The thought of foregoing coffee almost brings tears to my eyes, but I can’t afford to be late. Not for this.
I head straight for the botanical gardens, making record time. I’m a few miles away when I change lanes to avoid a slow-moving truck. It’s the second time the gray sedan behind me has done the same. This isn’t odd for this time of the morning. Diving in and out of lanes like a crane over the ocean, ducking in and out, is par for the course. Still, something feels off. I put on my blinker and shift all the way over to the slow lane, where I take the first exit I come to.
The sedan isn’t far behind.
“Siri, call Alex.”
“Calling Alex.”
My breath hitches when he answers on the first ring.
“I can’t meet you,” I stutter.
Silence.
“I’m being followed.”
“Are you sure?”
I slow, making a right turn into a strip center parking lot. When I check my rearview, the gray car has followed suit.
“Pretty sure.”
“Okay…” He takes a deep breath in and exhales quickly. “Can you see the driver?”
“Not really. The sun is in my eyes.”
“Hm. Can you read the plates?”
“Not right now—he’s not close enough. Wait.” I brake, slowing down. Squinting, I say, “I think they’re paper plates…”
“Can you tell if it’s a man?”
“No—yes—I don’t know.” I’m sure of nothing. Fear has me on edge. “I can’t tell.”
“Amy…listen…I need you to take a few breaths and calm down. Where are you?”
“Elmore Street. By Home Depot.”
“Good. It’s busy, right? Lots of people?”
“I don’t know. I guess.”
“How’s your gas gauge?”
“Does it matter?”
“Probably not right now. But it’s something to think about in the future.”
“I’m not thinking about the future,” I hiss. “I’m thinking about right fucking now. This moment. The fact that I’m being followed.”
“Just keep driving as though you’re looking for something. A store…a parking spot…whatever.” He clears his throat. “And calm down. I’m not going to ask you to do a J-turn.”
“What’s a J-turn?”
“A reverse 180.”
It feels like I’ve already done that.
“Is he still behind you?”
“I don’t know. I don’t see him.”
“Look again. Just don’t make it obvious. Make a few turns if you can.”
“How am I supposed to know?”
“One sighting of a potentially suspicious vehicle—may be nothing. Two sightings—suspicious behavior. Three sightings—even separated by time or distance—assume surveillance. One thing to keep in mind—and Aim, this is the important part…”
“What?”
“Target identification is the signal that often starts the attack.”
“What the fuck does that mean? Jesus, Alex. Speak in simple terms.”
“It means it may be the last chance you have to recognize danger before the actual attack starts.”
“Good to know.”
I hang up on him and dial 9-1-1.
The dispatcher tells me to look for the officer. Every thirty seconds or so she repeats how far away he is and how long it will take for him to reach me. It feels like an eternity before I finally spot his car, but in reality it’s only four minutes.
I pull into a parking spot in front of Home Depot. The officer parks next to me, comes around to the driver’s side, and rests his elbows on my door. He’s an older man, bald and round, with a face that looks too friendly to be a cop. He asks for a description of the car and I reiterate the same thing I told the dispatcher. I explain who I think it is, and he asks if I have a restraining order.
I tell him I don’t. He asks about Jack Mooney and whether he’s a family member or if we’ve ever had a dating relationship.
“No,” I say. “I served on his jury fifteen years ago.”
His face is impassable. He listens to chatter on the radio.
“What should I do now?”
His eyes widen. “That’s the million dollar question.”
“What do you mean?” He’s calmer than I’d like him to be. I expect outrage. I expect him to be concerned, determined to fix this. Instead, he looks at me like this is a story he’s heard a million times before.
“Look out for yourself — but also understand—stalking is not easily defined outside of the relationships I mentioned.” He shakes his head. Then once again, leans his head toward his shoulder to listen to the chatter on his radio. He holds a button down and says something in response. “Not unless you catch the perp in the ac
t. And sometimes…not even then.”
I watch as he walks back to his car. He returns with a pamphlet, which he passes through the open window. His expression makes me feel like I’m about to officially become a member of a club I really don’t want to belong to.
He sighs. “Remember, you should report everything. All incidents. Even if it feels insignificant. What you’re doing is building a case. This guy is on parole. There are conditions he has to abide by. An officer he has to report to. Eventually, he’ll slip up—and get caught doing it. So it’s imperative that you request that each incident is documented, okay? Some officers—especially if there’s a lot going on—won’t take the time to write it up. Let them know you plan to request a copy of the report. And then do it.”
“Okay.”
“Also, you’ll wanna make sure you turn over any written correspondence. You’ll wanna report any phone threats to the law enforcement agency where the incident happened. Keep in mind—different jurisdictions will handle things differently. Put dates received on any and all correspondence from him. And last, know the name of the law enforcement officer involved with each incident. And that’s not just for your own records—I can’t tell you how important it is to make friends right now.”
“I see.” I glance down at the pamphlet in my hands. “Anything else?”
“Tell everyone. And I mean everyone. Give friends, co-workers, and neighbors a description of the guy. Ask them to document each time they see him. What he’s doing, what he’s driving, what he’s wearing. The time and date are vital as well.”
I swallow hard. I don’t tell him I’ve already heard all of this. From the police. From Alex. From the internet. Instead, I simply offer a weak smile. “Got it.”
“And take care of yourself, okay?”
I feel tears forming, starting way down at the back of my throat. A nod is all I can manage.
He pats my door. “Now, if you were my daughter…I’d tell you to arm yourself.”
“I’ve heard that before.”
“Good. If I were you, I’d listen.”
Chapter Twenty-One
There were mansions in Barton Creek, and then there were mansions. The Germond home is a mansion. A gorgeous Tuscan-style estate nestled among majestic trees in one of the city’s most desirable, exclusive, and expensive neighborhoods. I’m a little surprised Alex can afford this, not that it’s any of my business, except in this case he’s making it so.
Dana tells me he received a settlement from the accident. I hadn’t asked, but she’s full of gossip, and she wants to make sure everyone else is too.
I was supposed to show him this house yesterday. Instead, I went home and spent the rest of the day in bed. The tension started out as it normally does, snaking around my shoulders, radiating upward, attaching itself with a vise-like grip around my skull.
Greg had to leave work to pick up the girls, and though he wasn’t happy about having to cancel an afternoon full of meetings, when he arrived home to find me lying on the cold tile in between bouts of vomiting, he understood.
As we enter the formal dining area, I wonder what people do with this kind of space. Even though it’s staged, and staged well, I still can’t picture what one would do with it all, other than, well… stare at it.
“Are you sure you need this much room?” I ask. As the words fly out, it hits me how they might land. Pressing my lips together tight, I move on and into the kitchen to further avoid filling the empty space with words to mask my nerves.
“You might want to move in,” Alex says, catching me off guard. I hadn’t realized he was right behind me. His voice is startling, closer than I realized.
“Me?” I say, touching my chest. I turn on my heel. “I’m pretty happy where I am. In fact—”
“Amy—” He holds up one finger to shush me. “I know about Greg’s company.”
My mouth forms a tight smile as I feign surprise. “What do you know?”
“Just that it isn’t doing so well. You hear things, you know. Rumblings here and there…”
I check my phone. “How long until your friend is here?”
“Ah, Benny.” He runs his hand across the smooth countertop. “Benny gets here when he gets here.” He looks up at me and raises his brow. “These will be the first to go. Unless you like them.” His brow furrows. “Do you like them?”
“Not really.”
He smiles. “I didn’t think so.”
I scan my texts and then my emails as he makes his way around the rest of the kitchen. “You remember that tiny apartment we shared? What a dump, huh?”
“I try not to think about it.”
“Funny,” he chuckles. “It’s all I can think about.”
My eyes meet his, and then immediately I turn back to my phone.
Alex sighs. “He’s a little nervous about the house, I’m sure. Benny, he’s like a bloodhound. I’m sure he’s around sniffing things out.”
I look up then. “How do you know him?”
“He does some work for me now and then.”
“What? Like PI work?”
“Yeah, you could say that. Whatever I need…”
I follow him up the stairs. He peeks into a few rooms before walking out onto one of the terraces that overlooks the pool. Not just the pool—you can see the entire city from here. “What do you think?”
“It’s gorgeous,” I say honestly. “But I’m not sure it’s you.”
“Perhaps you don’t really know me. Not anymore.”
“Yes,” I nod. “People change.”
“You have no idea.”
I don’t ask him for elaboration, because I don’t get the chance. “I saw you with the cop yesterday.”
“Oh, yeah?”
“Yeah. I wanted to make sure you were safe. Wasn’t much help, was he?”
I shrug.
“Don’t worry,” he says, looking out at the serene, crystal clear water. “Benny will know what to do.”
Alex makes himself at home in the theater while we wait for Benny to show. I’m beginning to wonder if it’s actually going to happen. He kicks back and extends his seat, resting his hands behind his head. I take a seat in the row behind him. “You have to understand the mind of this felon, Amy. He lost something, and he thinks you took it.”
“What did I take?” I fumble with the button to let my foot rest out. Suddenly, the chair vibrates as a massager runs up my back. “I’m not the one who raped that girl.”
“You took his freedom. And now he has money. Money changes a person, Aim. It can make you feel invincible, even if it’s not real.”
“You’re a divorce attorney. How do you know this?”
“Trust me, there are few things nastier than divorce.”
“Ain’t that the truth,” a male voice says from behind.
Alex nearly jumps out of his seat to greet his friend. I nearly jump out of my skin. “Benny!”
“Alex, my man.”
I look on as the two of them do some weird man-hug ritual. I want to ask Alex how exactly money changes a person. Although, truth be told, I’d also kind of like to find out for myself. I’ve explained to Alex that I can’t afford his friend’s services. That’s okay, he’d said. It’s pro bono.
But he knows me, and he knows I can’t—or rather won’t—accept something for nothing. Alex suggests moving back out onto the terrace, which we do. He and Benny are deep in conversation, making out like I’m not even there. I have to pick the girls up in an hour and a half, and Alex and I still have another home to see. When I clear my throat and try to get down to it, both men look at me as though I have two heads. “What is it going to take to get him put away again?”
I swear Alex’s face loses color. “Aim, we don’t talk business before proper introductions are made.”
His friend stands there, arms folded across his chest, leaning away. His expression is half intrigued, half disgusted, and his eyes bore holes through me. After several painful seconds, he finishes giving me
the once-over. Then he shakes his head and looks at Alex.
“This is Amy Stone. An old friend of mine from school.”
Finally, Ben Dugan breaks into a smile, extends his hand, closing the space between us in two strides. “Ben Dugan. Benny, my friends call me.”
“Nice to meet you, Ben.” I take his outstretched hand. “Amy.”
This doesn’t even seem real. I don’t know what I was expecting when I agreed to meet with Ben Dugan, but it wasn’t a well-groomed businessman in a suit and tie.
“Something wrong?” he asks, looking from me to Alex and back, his brow furrowed.
“If it weren’t, would you be here?”
“Ah,” he says, nodding at Alex. “A funny one.”
“Amy’s full of tricks.” Alex motions toward the patio furniture. “Here.” He slides a chair out. “Why don’t we sit?”
Benny Dugan is the first to take a seat. He leans forward, folds his hands together, and rests his elbows on his knees. It looks like he’s praying. His eyes are on me. “Not what you were expecting?”
I half shrug and look away, out at the pool. Then I turn toward Alex. I suddenly have a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach, as though I shouldn’t be here, as though I’d like to find the rewind button and press it. “What is it you do exactly?”
“I’m a private investigator.”
“Right.”
He glances at me sideways. “So this guy—Jack Mooney. I hear he’s been following you around… ruffling up your feathers.”
“He showed up at my children's school,” I reply without thinking. I feel instantly protective, wishing I could take it back, wishing I hadn’t mentioned them around a man like Benny Dugan. And then, because I’m nervous, and terribly out of practice, I say the next bad thing. “So I bought a gun.”
Ben Dugan looks unsurprised. “What kind?”
“A pistol—no—I mean a handgun.”
Alex and Benny exchange a look.
“Honey, you could’ve bought an Uzi. If this guy intends to do you harm, he’ll find a way.”
